


Something Sweet And Spicy’s Always Popular This Time Of Year

by IzzyShep



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chelsea Buns, Coffee Addiction, Does anyone like Ministry Events?, Greg Is A Slytherin, Greg the Baker, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mutual Pining, Underappreciated apple picking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16694110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IzzyShep/pseuds/IzzyShep
Summary: It starts when Draco finds himself dragged into apple picking by Pansy, of all people. Harry finds out that Greg Goyle owns a Bakery. A mutual love of Chelsea Buns takes care of the rest.Alternating POV - Draco/Harry.You know these characters aren’t mine, but the plot is... and this obviously isn’t for profit but for fun. Hope you enjoy.





	1. Draco Is Not Amused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least there’s something spicy to keep Draco’s mind off the weather.
> 
> Draco POV

This is idiotic. I cannot believe I’ve managed to get myself trapped in this idiotic plan of Pansy’s, but here I am standing in the middle of some godforsaken field waiting to be picked up by a hay wagon, if Pansy is to be believed.

I’m still inclined to believe this is all some kind of prank. Pansy might do that. Then again, probably not. She’s ballsy but not stupid.

I watch her giggle, actually giggle, and shy away from her new boyfriend, Max. Max, the muggle-born whose grand idea this was. Apparently, muggles enjoy riding around in wooden wagons, picking apples, and roasting themselves in front of bonfires.

I suppose the bonfire element would normally be fine, except for the fact that I’ve never been especially fond of fires.

Pansy has assured me there will be firewhisky and some kind of warm drink with elvish apple brandy. I made her promise alcoholic refreshments. I can’t imagine struggling through this event without them.

I console myself by looking at Millicent. Millicent is even less enthusiastic than I am.

“Don’t look at me.” She barks. “You know this wasn’t my idea.”

She gives us all a once over with a warming charm just the same. Millie’s like that. She can’t help herself from being a den mother to us all. Even when we were in school, she was the one shepherding the lower years around and making sure they weren’t caught out doing what they oughtn’t.

“Oh, look! Here’s the wagon.” Pansy chirps as if she’s not also cold and damp.

I pull my scarf closer around my neck and renew the warming charm. Then I hear a quick little gasp by Pansy, followed by “Oh, Bollocks” in Millie’s voice.

I honestly don’t even have to turn around to guess what it might be for two reasons. First, this is my life, and if there is one truism in my life it is this: Potter will show up when it’s absolutely least convenient. Second, traipsing around in the mud to pick fruit which is readily available from the nearest house elf is exactly the kind of endeavor Granger would find invigorating.

I turn around slowly to see the carriage drawing near and hear “Buggering Hell, Hermione!”

Apparently, the Weasel is as excited about spending the afternoon together as I am. I feel an odd wave of camaraderie toward the man.

It is just that bad.

It is made marginally less so as I watch Pansy give Max one of her patented “Slytherin Stares of Death,” and he visibly shudders. I feel myself smirk and then notice Pansy starting to direct her ire in my direction. I look away across the sodden field and wonder if it would be unforgivably rude to simply apparate to the nearest Wizarding Pensioners’ Cribbage Tournament. Surely that would be a much more pleasant way to spend an afternoon; warmer, at the very least.

“Oh, I…” Max is sputtering. “I thought you said you weren’t…. that you….”

“No, I… We decided to come after all.” Granger replied with just a smidgeon more coherence.

That’s right, I remind myself, Pansy’s Max and Granger are colleagues at St. Mungo’s. So, I suppose that at least confirms that this IS in fact something muggles enjoy doing, as both of them seem to have shared this wonderful urge to do unnecessary manual labor in poor weather conditions.

“Climb in, then.” The driver calls back in our direction, his horses pulling at their harnesses.

“Well.” Millie starts, looking around at the group and in the wagon at the three of them.

“Oh,” Granger looks around, suddenly realizing they’re going to have to rearrange themselves if we’re going to climb in. “Budge over, Ron… Harry.”

They do, and of course, I end up seated next to Potter.

“Malfoy”

“Potter”

“Apple picking?” He asks, and I’m reminded of his stellar conversational skills.

“Oh, is fruit involved? How wonderful. I was content to simply ride around in the wagon.”

I notice his lips twitch just a bit before he nods as if this is a completely normal activity for grown men to be stuck doing on a Saturday afternoon. After that exchange we all sit in silence for a while, casting glances between one another. Millie is muttering to herself and twisting pieces of hay into shapes. I wonder if she’s cursing Pans.

Eventually, it’s Granger who breaks the silence. “How far to the orchard?” She asks the driver.

“Oh, only another ten or fifteen minutes.” He replies, half turned to us. “It’s a lovely drive on a sunny day.”

Of course it is. I look around in the gloom and when I turn in the direction of Potter, he has a sardonic half smile on his face, as if we’re sharing a secret.

I turn away and instead look at Pansy who’s snuggled up next to Max. “Do you have that warm drink you mentioned?”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thermos. “Mulled apple brandy.”

I have no idea what this is. I open the top to give it a sniff. It’s warm and spicy smelling. I suppose it won’t kill me, and a bit of something would definitely be in order right about now.

“Mug?” I look in Pansy’s direction. I don’t generally go in for communal beverages.

She pulls a nice self-heating mug from her bag as well, and I pour myself a bit.

It is nice. Not what I’d usually pick, but the warmth and spices do seem to be counteracting the wet. I wonder if she’s added a potion.

I see Potter out of the corner of my eye, and he looks truly pathetic.

“Would you like some?” I’m offering before I can think better of it. I can’t imagine I actually want Savior Spittle in my drink, but I’m holding out the mug to him as if I do.

I blame my mother for this urge toward good manners.

He shrugs and takes the mug.

“Thanks.” He mumbles as he hands it back before he closes his eyes.

I wonder if he’s expecting something nasty to happen, but his face has a strange kind of peace on it.

The carriage hits a bump in the track, and as he’s jolted Potter grabs at the side of the carriage behind my back. Now I am nearly encircled by his arm. This is both pleasantly warm and vaguely disconcerting, the latter primarily due to the former.

He doesn’t move his arm one way or the other.

I choose not to move either, unsure of what any movement might signal. Instead, I thank Lilith for the blessing of containment charms and take another sip of the brandy. I’m sure I’m going to need a refill before too long, and then I’ll be able to move without it meaning anything. Unless not moving means something.

Bugger all, Potter’s annoying.

I decide to move and refill my cup.

“Pans, be a dear…” I reach forward, disengaging from Potter’s side to lean toward Pansy’s thermos.

I instantly miss the feeling of him, and curse myself for wondering if slotting myself back close to him would be noticeable.

I’m horrified at the fact that I might want it to be noticed.

I definitely need another drink.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” She remarks as she finishes my refill.

I take another drink and can’t help myself from sighing. It really is quite nice. “You know, it reminds me of those Chelsea buns Greg makes.”

“That’s it! I knew it was familiar.” Millie jumps in and as I turn to look at her I notice a strange look sweep across Potter’s face, as if he’s got something stuck in his throat.


	2. Harry Didn’t Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He really had no idea.
> 
> Harry POV

Once Malfoy, Bullstrode and Pansy are out of earshot I let out a breath and ask the first thing that pops into my head. “Did you know Greg Goyle has a bake shop?”

I look over at Hermione and Ron who are again, or maybe just still, wrapped up in one another. It’s not that I begrudge them the urge to be close, and I get it – they are apart a lot, what with Ron spending nearly every day the shop and ‘Mione’s hours at St. Mungo’s. They deserve to enjoy their time together, really, they do.

I try again. “Did you know Greg Goyle has a bake shop?”

Hermione turns toward me and looks slightly regretful. “Yes, actually. Max brings things in from his place all the time. His ginger sultana scones are fantastic.”

I look at her and then back to where Malfoy, Parkinson, Max and Bullstrode have just disapparated and wonder how it is that everyone is aware of this, and I’ve simply missed it.

Goyle is a baker who makes things that are ‘fantastic.’ Goyle makes things that are worth sighing over in ways that probably shouldn’t be done in public.

I shake my head to try to head off the thought that’s edging in where I don’t want it, but I’m too late. It’s there. Draco Malfoy is closing his eyes and sighing again. His lips are parting just a little bit, and the damp of that spicy apple brandy makes a sheen…

I swallow hard and look at my friends who are looking back at me with an odd sort of look.

“Maybe we should be going?” I suggest, not wanting to continue all these looks.

“Yeah, mate. Let’s.” Ron nods. “You hungry? It’s not too late to grab something at the Broomsticks.”

I’m not all that hungry, but the idea of being somewhere warm and indoors is good so I agree. Besides, I think I could do with a firewhisky. Maybe two.

——

On Sunday I find out where Greg Goyle’s bake shop is located.

I resolve that on Monday I’ll stop by to find out what all the fuss is about.

——

When I step through the doors to The Bakery I nearly dissolve in the twin aromas of buttery sugar and warm yeast. It’s beyond amazing. It’s everything a bake shop should smell like. And, it’s warm with an actual buzz of happiness.

In fact, it feels so warm and happy I probably wouldn’t believe it was actually Goyle’s place if the man himself wasn’t standing behind one of the vitrines staring down at a display of scones. I watch him nudge them just a bit into a neater arrangement before he looks up with an unexpectedly serene smile on his face.

I nearly laugh thinking of fourteen year-old Goyle with custard dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and Malfoy making one of his patented twisty-faces. How could I not have known this is what Goyle would end up doing. It’s so obvious now.

“Potter?” He’s seen me and he doesn’t sound displeased… just surprised.

I step forward, ”Yeah, hi…. Um… I… Hermione said a colleague of hers stops by here… and I wanted to pick something up… er… try it out…maybe take a few in to work?”

“Of course. Max, Pansy’s boyfriend, he’s here all the time. They’re at Mungo’s together, aren’t they?” Goyle moves to grab a pastry box. “What would you like?”

“What do you recommend?”

“Well, the blueberry almond scones just came out of the oven… and the chocolate croissants are always a hit.”

“Those sound nice, maybe three of each?” I suggest and watch him start to the pastry’s in the box.

He looks at me, and my heart suddenly thumps as I remember. “Do you have any Chelsea buns? Something spicy, with apples? I think ‘Mione mentioned something about them.” I can feel myself blush at the lie. I am an absolute shite liar.

“Oh, yeah… nearly out, but there are still a few left. Three of those, as well?” He asks, reaching for the buns.

They do look good, so I nod.

“You’re lucky we still have those. They go pretty quick.” He pulls his wand and with a flick the box is closed and tied with a neat bit of bakery twine.

As he hands me the box, he gives me a little smile like he’s just about to share a secret. “Those buns are Draco’s favorite. He comes here every morning at seven just to make sure he gets one with his coffee, but he’ll never admit it. It’s always, ‘Oh, and do you have one of those buns, Greg?’”

Goyle shakes his head. “Like it would kill him to admit he likes them.”

I shrug. “I guess some things never change.”

Greg nods. “Seems that’s true.”


	3. Draco Isn’t Partial, Really

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right.
> 
> Draco POV

I look down at my watch and try not to flinch. No matter how often I explain the realities of work, Narcissa Malfoy will not be put off when she has something she needs to ‘bring to my attention,’ particularly if that something is her roses, or her seamstress, or the latest gossip in _Witch_ _Weekly_ (not that that she will ever admit to that to anyone but me and Estelline, who’s sworn to secrecy by whatever house elf oath she’s taken).

In any event, her “It will only take a moment, Dear Draco,” took more than a moment, and now I was nearly twenty minutes late in leaving my flat. Even so, I assure myself it’s still closer to seven than not, and I’ll be at Greg’s any minute now.

I swear I’m not dependent on that coffee, but I do like it, and why shouldn’t I have the things I like?

I particularly like that when I reach the counter he has my coffee ready to go, just the way I take it; creamy with a scant touch of sugar.

“And, we have those buns you like…” Greg reminds me.

I raise my eyebrow, not wanting to look too eager. “Oh, that would be nice.” One shouldn’t look too eager for sweets. It’s gauche.

“Yes, one of the Chelsea buns, then.” I consent, and Greg tucks one in a bag for me.

As he rings me up he mentions that I’ve just missed Potter.

“Oh?” I look about casually, as if he might still be around and I might be moderately interested in that information. I’m not sure I want to see him because if it do I’ll either have to acknowledge him, or not. I’m not sure at the moment which the better course of action would be.

“Yeah. He came in yesterday for the first time. I guess he was tempted enough to come back today.” Greg leans forward a bit, as if he’s about to give me some kind of confidential tidbit. “He was here just before seven and he also picked up one of my buns.” He adds with a tap at the bag.

“Well.” I straighten up, not wanting to look too interested. “They are good.”

“I know.” Greg smiles. “They seem to be attracting all kinds of interest.”

“Maybe it’s the weather.” I suggest. “Something warm and spicy appeals at this time of year.”

“That’s what I hear.” Greg answers, and I wonder if he has any idea what he’s talking about.


	4. Harry Has A Craving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA: Those buns really are pretty good.
> 
> Harry POV.

“I think I might be developing some kind of an addiction.”

Hermione looks up at me from the Sunday crossword she’s working on. “Oh? For what?”

“Those Chelsea buns Goyle makes.”

“How’s that possible? You only found out about the place last weekend.” She turns back to scratch in another answer.

“I know, but I stopped in on Monday, and I can’t stop myself from going back. I was there every day this week.”

She laughs at me. “I told you they were good.”

“Did you know Malfoy goes there, too. Every day. But, get this, he orders coffee.”

Her quill stops and she looks up. “You’re kidding. Coffee? Are you sure?” Her smile betrays her mockery.

“Really, don’t you find that a bit… odd?”

“Coffee?” She raises an eyebrow. “Harry, I hate to remind you, but YOU have coffee every morning.”

“Yes, but… You don’t think it’s a bit muggle-ish? I’d have thought coffee was too lowbrow for someone like Malfoy.”

She shrugs. “Maybe you should keep an eye on him.”

“Maybe.” I think back to Friday morning when I’d watched Malfoy from my spot in the corner of the shop as he picked up his coffee and his bun, just as he’d done on Thursday, and Wednesday, and probably Tuesday, but I’d been too early to catch him on Tuesday.

When I looked back up at Hermione she was shaking her head, and I felt like I’d missed something.


	5. Draco’s Starting To Get Suspicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something’s Up...
> 
> Draco POV

He’s here again.

I thought that perhaps Potter would find somewhere else to be come Monday morning, but apparently I was wrong because here he is again with his whirlwind of hair and scarlet robes, hunched in the corner with his coffee and his Chelsea bun.

There are a couple of patrons ahead of me in the queue, so I have a moment to sneak a look and see what he’s up to.

I’m just wondering if Auror standards and practices has given him some kind of special dispensation for his ridiculous hair when I see him look down at his fingers and make a face. Then, he lifts them to his mouth and actually begins to lick them.

In public.

He’s licking his fingers.

His pink tongue slowly curls out from between his lips and teases one finger, and then another, and then a third. Most disconcertingly of all, as he licks each finger his fingertips disappear just between his lips and then draw gently out. I can almost feel the graze of his fingertip across his lower lip.

It’s _obscene_.

My skin flushes with a twinge of heat, and I look around to see if anyone has noticed this display when I hear a soft cough.

“Your coffee?” Greg asks, and he’s looking at me with a goofy, very Goyle-like face.

“Thank you, yes.” I say, taking the cup.

“And, we have one of those buns you like…” He adds.

I’m trying not to watch Potter out of the corner of my eye, but he’s now sucking on his thumb and his lips are glistening with sugary icing from the bun.

I pull my eyes away and put my attention on Greg, he’s looking at me and waiting for an answer. I realize what he’s asked and quickly respond. “Yes, of course. That would be lovely.”

As I finish up paying, I can’t help but ask. “Is he here every day, now?”

“Not the weekend, but as you see, he’s back today.”

I purse my lips, searching for the right thing to say.

“I suppose he’s found something tempting.” Greg smiles and offers me the bag.

As I turn to go I cast a look back over toward where Potter is sitting, and he’s looking at me. I offer a little nod and he smiles back, and then licks a bit of sugar off the corner of his mouth.


	6. Harry Makes An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry drives a hard bargain when it comes to pastry exchanges.
> 
> Harry POV

After about a week of it, I realize Malfoy and I are settling into a friendly nod kind of situation vis-à-vis our morning coffee. I also decide that there’s probably nothing all that odd about Malfoy ordering coffee, particularly as Goyle seems to always have his cup ready for him, and that probably makes Malfoy feel as if ordering coffee is somewhat permissible.

So, that’s more or less where I am on that Friday morning when I walk into the shop.

“Morning, Potter. Coffee and a bun?” Greg asks. I’ve found he’s surprisingly genial. Maybe all that grunting at school was just adolescent dissatisfaction.

I look over the display and decide to stick with the Chelsea buns. There’s just something so deliciously sweet and spicy about them. Not only the apples, but little bits of candied orange and the cinnamon and cloves, and I think there’s some ginger, too. I’ve half a mind to ask Goyle for the recipe, but I’m not sure we have that kind of rapport yet.

“Perhaps you’d like a spare? I’ve only the two left.” Goyle points to the tray behind the glass. “Maybe you could share with someone?”

I must have made a face at that, or something, because he adds. “At work?”

“Sure.” I agree, because I’m sure Hannah would like one, although then I might get myself into a ‘bringing buns into work every morning’ kind of situation with her, and we haven’t moved into that stage of our partnership. It’s only been a few weeks since she and I were teamed up.

So, I’m not certain what I’ll do with the extra bun when I take my seat in the corner and begin to peruse the morning _Prophet_. It’s the usual nonsense, including an exclusive on the plans for tomorrow’s St. Mungo’s Ball which will benefit the Creevey wing for children and teens.

I wince a little at the thought that I agreed to attend. Society things aren’t really my kind of thing, at least that’s what I tell myself. Hermione knows the truth, though, which is that I was so scarred from the experience of seeing Ron in those atrocious robes back in Fourth year I get hives looking at formalwear.

A shudder runs just down my spine as I see him walk in. Malfoy’s here, again.

I train my eyes back on the paper but keep watch of him.

My Auror training has definitely helped in my ability to keep tabs on people, including people like Malfoy who have an indecently annoying ability to look absolutely perfect in the morning.

It’s beyond unfair that a git like him has hair that looks like spun silk first thing in the morning. It probably smells like orange blossoms, too.

I’m not even sure if I know what orange blossoms smell like, but I’d wager a galleon Malfoy’s hair smells like them.

He’s looking my way, and his lips are pursed like he’s sucking on something tart.

I look back at my paper, and when I look back up again he’s looking down into the vitrine with a level of concentration which is frankly, a bit scary.

I wince on behalf of the poor sods he cross-examines. I’ve heard he’s an excellent barrister, and if that look is any evidence, he’s probably scarily intense when he gets you in front of the Wizangamot.

As he pays, I flip a page and decide I’m extraordinarily interested in the continuing coverage of the upcoming series of holiday events at St. Ethelred’s when I sense someone headed in my direction.

I look up, and it’s Malfoy, and his face looks… well… a bit tortured. For some really inexplicable reason, it makes me want to break out in a grin, and I do my very best not to. I think I must look an utter nutter, so I decide to try to look casual.

“Malfoy.” I say, folding my paper and setting it aside. So far, so good.

“Potter.” He replies. “I see you’ve developed a taste for Greg’s sweets.” He nods at the smear of icing remaining on my plate.

“After you and Bullstrode mentioned them the other weekend, I had to try them out… and Hermione says all his pastries are delicious.”

“I see” Malfoy replied. Not much to work with there.

“Can I help you?” I try.

“I…” he started and then shifted his balance. Has he always been this tall and lean, or is it just this vantage point with me seated and him standing?

“Greg tells me you might have a spare one of his buns.” Malfoy points at the paper sack on my table.

“Oh, yes… he suggested I might want it… to share.” I look at the bag and it’s starting to look suspicious, or at least as suspicious as a bag with a bit of pastry inside can look.

“Did he?” Draco looks back over his shoulder at the register where Greg is very deep in conversation with a woman buying what looks to be one of the blueberry almond scones.

“Um… yeah?” I answer, because, really, what else is there to say?

“Well, do you think you could be persuaded into an exchange?” He holds up a sack.

“That depends. What’s on offer?” I surprise myself. I had actually been thinking about eating the bun myself – they are just that good – but this seems like an opportunity I shouldn’t miss.

“I’ve one of the ginger sultana scones.” Malfoy explains and adds. “They’re quite good.”

“I know…” For some reason my mouth has started watering. “I mean, Hermione has said she likes them.”

“Well?” He puts the bag on the table. “Will you accept my proposal?”

“What?” My brain seems to have gotten stuck somewhere.

“An exchange?”

“Oh… Um…” I look at the paper sack, and for some reason I’m seized with the idea that I should really get more out of this. After all, the buns are his absolute favorite, and I had been looking forward to it.

“On one condition.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke about pastries.” I say, and I can feel a smirk crossing my face.

“Of course you don’t. Deadly serious, pastry exchanges are.” Malfoy quips back and I can feel my smirk growing. He’s got the start of one, too.

“I’ll swap you the pastry if you throw in a drink at the Mungo’s ball. You’re going, aren’t you?” I’m sure he is. It’s the kind of thing his set always attend. Plus, Parkinson’s seeing a healer.

He purses his lips, and I’m struck by the desire to flick them, or something. They definitely need something.

“Very well.” He nudges his bag forward and I do the same.

As he takes what was my bag he looks at me, and the edges of his lips quirk upward. “You do know the drinks are free, at the Ball?”

“Suggested donation.” I counter. “And, I expect you to make one.”

“Of course, Potter... It’s for the children, after all.” He replies, and it sounds a lot more lascivious than it really should.


	7. Draco Gives Potter Something Spicy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever it takes to make a Ministry event more palatable, right?
> 
> Draco POV

I smooth down my robes and take another look in the mirror. I do look good. Januz is a genius with a needle and thread, and the cut fits like a glove. Money well spent is a pleasure.

The thought of money being spent reminds me I’m due to arrive at this ball any minute. I promised Max, by way of Pansy, I would bid on something, if not more than one something in their silent auction. So, I take a breath and apparate to the lobby of Sawbridge’s, the hotel which opened in the rubble of Borgin & Burkes and few of the other establishments on the former Knockturn Alley.

I give the guest list a tap to register my arrival and make my way toward the auction. It won’t all be terrible. I happen to know that the Zabini’s offered a week at their villa on Capri. If I must, I can bid on that, although I find Bianca’s taste run’s a bit toward the garish.

I’m considering placing a bid on a private box at the Puddlemere – Tutshill match when I feel someone warm draw up behind me.

I turn to confirm who it is, and Potter’s hair surprises me. He’s done something with it, and it looks… good. Surprisingly good. In fact, all of him looks surprisingly good. He’s managed to dress himself in an exceptional set of robes in a silk that’s so inky green it’s nearly black, which set off both his hair and eye color in the most bewitching way.

He’s smiling at me, and I realize he’s said something.

“Come again?” I ask, before I realize what I’ve said.

“Um…” He shakes his head, and I see his face start to color. “I was wondering if you’d bid on anything.”

“Oh..” I look over the tables. “No, not yet, but this looked interesting.” I point at the quidditch tickets.

“Did you?”

“Bid on a weekend in Cornwall.”

“The cottage?” I remembered it. Quaint. Potentially romantic if you had the right partner.

He nodded.

“You have someone in mind to take with you?”

He shook his head. “Nothing certain… but, I know the owner.”

I smile. “I put in a bid on the week in Capri for the same reason.”

“Zabini’s?” He guessed.

“The very same.”

“Do you have a someone in mind, you know… if you win it?” He asks.

“Nothing certain.” I offer and feel myself blush. I wish I were better at this, whatever this is.

“So, can I buy you that drink?” I suggest, hoping having something to do other than twist myself into embarrassment will help me recover.

“You can… I have a feeling I may need it to struggle through the evening.”

“You don’t relish these events? The adoring fans, the appeals to your goodness?”

He shook his head and pulled at his collar in a way that would have prompted a poke from my mother.

“I hate them… I…” He started and then stopped just as we arrived at the bar.

I looked over at the bartender. “What do you suggest?”

“We’ve a nice red and a good white… and the signature cocktail of the evening, the bonfire.” He pointed to a smoking tumbler of something golden.

“What’s in that?” Potter asked.

“It’s firewhisky with ginger infusion, blood orange, a splash of Peverell’s Pucker, and a touch of dragon smoke.”

“We’ll have two of those.” Potter decides and then looks at me as if he wants to confirm I won’t take offense. I nod my ascent.

It’s not terrible. The ginger lends a pleasant spiciness and the acid from the orange cuts the the firewhisky nicely.

I drop a couple of galleons in the jar on the bar and then turn to Potter.

“So, what were you saying about not enjoying these events?” I say, leading us back to our conversation as we make our way into the main ballroom.

“I hate these robes… I mean… I don’t like formalwear.”

“Why not?” I look him over again. He has absolutely no rational reason not to like the way he looks in those robes. Many men would kill to look like that in those robes. Many others would kill to take a look at what’s under those robes.

“I think it started in fourth year. That ball.”

I nearly choke on my cocktail. The bonfire was not made for consumption at the same time one is being reminded of Ronald Weasley in blue frilly robes.

“Merlin, Potter. Warn me next time.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

I wipe my eyes where tears have formed. I’m not sure if it’s because of the drink or from stifling my laughter at the memory.

“Oh,” I breathe, again, trying very hard to be sympathetic and not laugh out loud. “You really did look so pained that evening. You can’t be serious, though. That put you off formalwear?”

He nods with such a hangdog expression I think he must be at least partially joking – certainly fishing for sympathy. “I had nightmares” he explains. “I kept waking with the idea that Molly had sent a matching set for me.”

“You poor, poor thing. It’s a wonder you manage at all.”

“They used to give me hives… but I think I’m finally past that.”

“If the Prophet only knew. The man who took down Voldemort could have been felled by powder blue double knit.” I find myself grinning, and amazingly, he’s smiling back.

Potter really does have a remarkable smile.

He takes a sip of his drink and I watch as he licks the remnants of the sweet, warm liquid off his lips. Then he sighs. “I really should go and try to find Hermione and Ron.”

“I hope she’s found him something better to wear.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll catch you again later?” I say, suddenly hoping it’s true. A little more of Potter might make this whole evening a lot more interesting.

“Maybe another drink.” He smiles and I know I’m returning the gesture.


	8. Potter Picks Up Something Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll be having those buns to go, Greg.
> 
> Harry POV

“There you are, Harry. Did I see you chatting with Malfoy?” Hermione asks as Ron pretends to be very interested in what’s in his glass.

“Mmm…” I nod. “He owed me a drink.”

Ron’s ears perk at that. “How’s that?”

“I had the last Chelsea bun at Greg’s yesterday, and he wanted it. So, I made a deal.”

“You realize the drinks are free, mate?” Ron looks at me like I’m flying with more than a few bristles missing.

“Donations, Ron. You’re supposed to give them something for the donation jar.”

He looks away and Hermione rolls her eyes.

“Did you find something interesting at the auction?” She asks.

I shrug. “I bid on Shell Cottage.”

“We did, too…” Hermione begins.

“And the Cannon’s season tickets.” Ron adds.

“You don’t get to see them enough?” I know he already splits a pair of tickets with George. What he needs with an additional set is beyond me.

“The more the merrier!” He smiles. “We can use them for corporate gifts. For clients… of the shop.”

I wonder how excited his clients will be to receive those. Face value for most Cannons games can’t be more than a couple of Knuts, but I’m not going to rub salt into the wound. Chudley’s continued residence at the bottom of the tables is not Ron’s favorite topic. But, the man’s nothing if not hopeful.

The guests are starting to filter toward their tables, and I accept the fact that I’m probably stuck here for the better part of the evening. Maybe the dinner won’t be horrid. I hear they have a new chef at the hotel… some cousin of Fleur’s who arrived with a lot of buzz about six months ago.

By the time we’re on speech number three I’m looking around the room, wondering if the lights are low enough for me to make it out of the side doors without attracting too much attention. It’s not that I absolutely want to leave, but I could really use a stretch of my legs. Dennis Creevey is a good kind of bloke, but he doesn’t really know the meaning of the word “succinct.”

I whisper in Ron’s ear that I’m headed for the loo and do the old, ‘I’m half bent over so you can’t really see me’ shuffle to the side entrance I had my eye on. In a moment, I’m clear and in the hallway headed back toward the lobby area.

I’m just rounding the end of the hall when I spot a platinum head at the bar. It’s Malfoy.

“Having another drink?” I ask as I approach, and he turns, drink in hand.

He really is unfairly attractive, and somehow, as the evening has worn on, his hair has loosened just the tiniest bit so that the fringe is softly falling just over one eye. I really, really want to brush it aside.

“Are you here to see if you can prod another drink from me, Potter?”

I feel myself smiling. “I think I can manage this one on my own.”

I turn to the bartender and order what Malfoy’s having, which turns out to be another one of the bonfires.

I take a sip. They really are tasty; smoky, tart, spicy, sweet and warm all at once.

“You know, if I were mixing this, I think I might swap some fresh lime zest for the Peverell’s Pucker. It might be a little fresher.” He looks at his drink as if he’s decoding its contents by sight.

“Since when are you a professional bartender?”

“Not professional, but by avocation. I was the unofficial Slytherin mixologist in our eighth year.”

“How was that?” I don’t remember Malfoy doing much drinking… or much of anything that year except for laying low along with the rest of the Slytherins who went back for their eighth year as part of their commuted sentences.

His lips curl in a secretive smirk. “Sluggie took pity on us outcasts and found us a little corner of our own to use as a private common room. It was really just a large storeroom around the corner from his lab, but he enlarged it a bit, and we transfigured a few pieces of furniture…”

“I had no idea.” I really hadn’t had any idea, but it definitely explains all that time they seemed to be spending in the potions lab. I thought the map had gone a bit buggy with the damage to the castle… I shake my head at the memory of looking for Malfoy’s dots during eighth year.

“We look after our own, you know. Even Slughorn.”

“I see that.” I twist my nearly empty drink in my hand, and consider ordering another. “You know, I was almost sorted Slytherin.”

“You were not.” Malfoy looks at me out of the corner of his eyes, and I notice the lights glinting off the grey of them.

“I was, but I convinced the hat to put me in Gryffindor.”

“Of course you did. Is there nothing you want that you don’t get?”

He’s barely said the words and my heart is beating like mad in my chest. I think I might be going crazy because I know exactly what I want right now, and it’s by far the most insane idea I’ve ever had.. and the most absurdly obvious.

I take a breath and hope I sound much, much cooler than I feel. “There’s something I want that I’m not sure I’ll get…”

He straightens up a little, and I think I hear his breath catch a little. “Oh?”

I put my drink down on the bar. “Yeah.”

“Maybe I could help you with that… over a drink… at mine?” He puts his glass down on the bar and I watch his long fingers slowly trace the rim of the glass as he waits for my answer.

“That sounds exactly like what I want.”

And then it seems to happen all of the sudden and very slowly. He reaches out for me, and when he lays his hand on my arm we apparate to what must be his apartment. I only get a moment’s look at it before he’s pulled me close and his lips are brushing up next to mine.

“I hope this is what you had in mind.”

I honestly can’t think about what I had in mind two seconds ago, but what I have in mind right now is that his breath is smokey-sweet, and I can almost taste the firewhiskey on his lips.

This is what I want. _This_.

So I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him just a bit closer, and it is some kind of mixture because it’s warm and spicy and hits me like a ton of bricks.

——

The next morning I pop into Greg’s for something sweet and ask for two Chelsea buns.

“I assume you’ll want these, as well.” He puts two cups of coffee in takeaway mugs on the counter.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the smirk on Goyle’s face tells me all I need to know.

 


End file.
